


The Riddle House

by KaedeRavensdale



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: American Tom, Code: white, English harry, Gen, Historical References, Museums, Paranormal, Period Accurate Clothing, Plantation Era, Southern Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: Wandering off during a tour of a supposedly haunted manor isn't the best idea that Harry Potter has ever had.





	The Riddle House

 

“The Riddle house and plantation was first established in 1787 by Thomas Riddle Senior, who later passed it on to his son Thomas Riddle Junior and, through him, his grandson Tom Riddle but after Tom Riddle died of Yellow Fever at the age of twenty four in 1867 it passed into the hands of a Professor of Regional History by name of Albus Dumbledore who, upon his own death, willed it to the American Historical Preservation Society. The place has since been transformed into a museum of sorts so that one can step back in time and have a view of what life on a plantation might have been like. Though, between you lot and I, many more people come here for the hauntings than the history.”

“Ghosts?” Harry heard his friend mutter from beside him in distaste. “Really! How ridiculous! Hogwarts Boarding School arranged our trip to America to be _educational_! What are we doing here wasting time on this rubbish?”

“It’s supposed to be both educational _and_ fun, ‘Mione. If it were just educational Harry and I wouldn’t be here, right mate?” The raven grinned at Ron and shook his head. “So what if some people come here hoping to run into a ghost? It’s a museum as well.”

The bushy brunet huffed and turned up her nose. “At least their clothing is period accurate!”

Both boys exchanged a helpless shrug as if to say ‘what can you do?’ in a way which wouldn’t be overheard and draw Hermoine’s ire and followed the tour group inside.

The front door was large wooden and painted white, the windows inset with painted glass. The carpet was slightly balding and the wallpaper was dulled near colorless but both seemed original and looked as if they’d once been sumptuously rich. Ahead of them was a hallway and to the right was a beautifully carved wooden staircase. To Harry it looked like something straight off the set of _Gone With the Wind._

“Well,” Hermoine said reluctantly, “it is quite beautiful isn’t it?”

“Almost nothing was changed out between the time that the last of the Riddles inhabited this matter and the time of the Professor who went on to purchase it did. He brought in no new furniture. Made no renovations. Didn’t so much as replant the gardens or move the family portraits, though he did contribute a few knickknacks to Riddle House the most notable of which being the bird stand which held his Macaw Fawkes.” The tour guide went on to say, smoothing out the belled skirt of her pale green satin dress. “Some said it was because he simply found no need to. Others said it was out of respect for the late Mr. Tom Riddle who loved the Manor too much to leave it. Even after death.”

He could _hear_ Hermoine rolling her eyes.

“Follow me up the stairs, if you would. Yes, this way.” The tour guided them up the stairs and down a hallway before opening a door. The bedroom which they stepped into was large and well furnished, the furniture antique and made of wood- likely all handmade- and the four-poster bed was draped and emerald and silver. Everything was cordoned off by panes of glass.

“This bedroom belonged to Tom Riddle. It is here that he slept and it was here, in that bed, that he finally succumbed to his illness. He was a well like member of the community if thought a bit eccentric, having employed workers rather than used slave labor, and his funeral-held in the parlor-was Little Hangleton’s largest event for many years. He was buried in the gardens out back and his grave can still be seen to this day, unfortunately with recent need for renovations the gardens are for the time off-limits.”

“You alright, mate?” The raven glanced over at Ron and shifted uncomfortably.

“Fine. Just…need to run to the loo.”

“I _told you_ not to drink all that water before we came out here.”

“Louisiana’s got to be 1000 degrees in the summer ‘Moine. What did you expect?” Ron demanded lightly before nudging Harry’s arm. “You’d better go; this tour will probably be another hour or two.”

“There _are_ no bathrooms here, Ron. The Riddle House has no working plumbing. It said that in the brochure.”

“Well, the renovations are going on. There’s probably an outhouse somewhere in the gardens.”

“You’re not-.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate. We’ll cover you.” Ron spoke over Hermione’s protest as the group filed back out of the room.

“Thanks, Ron. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He slipped down the stairs while the tour guide was occupied. _Renovations. Renovations._ A hallway off of the massive kitchens was cordoned off by a chain and a small sign reading EMPLOYEES ONLY. _That’s probably my best chance of ending up in the part that’s being renovated and finding my way into the gardens which is where the outhouse is likely to be._

He stepped over the chain, nearly stumbling as he did so, and sped his pace.

_I hope that this place isn’t actually haunted. Don’t renovations make ghosts mad?_

The floors had been torn up and it seemed as if the workers that the museum had hired were in the process of repainting and relaying the tile. A beautiful if slightly overgrown garden was visible through the decorative glass of the back door. Harry rushed through it, almost being bowled over by the heat and humidity that hit him like a brick wall the moment he was outside, and bolted through the hedgerows and blooming flowers and desperately searched for the outhouse. Finding it at last and hurrying inside.

No longer with the pressing concern of needing to relieve himself he began heading back towards the house to relocate the tour group, hoping that no one had notice his absence, but caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye and stopped.

Harry squinted through the greenery of grass and leaves for a moment before realizing with a start exactly what it was that he was looking at. He stepped closer. Tilting his head. Managing at last to just barely make out the inscription on the crumbling headstone.

**Tom Marvolo Riddle**

**Born December 31 st 1843**

**Died June 5 th 1867**

Almost swallowed up completely by the lush surroundings, Harry couldn’t help but think that the grave looked incredibly forlorn. How long had it been since anyone had really visited? How many decades had passed since someone had left flowers?

It wasn’t much and he felt slightly bad about it because they came from the garden themselves but Harry still plucked a small handful of pink and white peonies from a nearby bush and laid them before the stone.

“That’s very kind of you.” Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the voice from a few feet behind him, laced with the distinctive drawl of the south. Standing off to the side in the shade of a towering lilac in full bloom was an unfamiliar man, his brunet curls in perfect order and his arms folded calmly behind his back. “It’s been a long time since anyone has come to visit. Most just come to stare. To regard it as a relic rather than a resting place. It really is quite sad.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” How the employees of the museum could stand to wear the thick long sleeved period-accurate clothing in heat like this Harry would never understand. “I’m sorry, really. I know that visitors aren’t supposed to be out here right now because of the renovations but I really needed to use the loo and-.”

“Calm down. I don’t work here and I haven’t come to yell at you. I’m the owner.”

“The…owner?” he repeated. “I thought that the Riddle House was owned by the American Historical Preservation Society.”

“It is. In part. But not entirely. I own most of this house. I have for a long time.” A certain wistfulness came over his expression as he looked at the crumbling stone, like a cloud passing over the stone. “It wasn’t a kind death. Yellow Fever. He suffered. For quite a long time. And feared. He was terrified of death, you see? Employed…certain rituals to trap himself within the house and grounds until the day that the house no longer existed.  No doubt hoping that, when that time came, he’d have come to terms with moving on.”

“Certain rituals? Like Voodoo, you mean?”

“Santeria. Voodoo. Either. Both. The records make no mention and the rumors are murky at best. I wonder, sometimes, if he regrets what he did. If he is…tired now and wishes to rest.”

“You certainly sound like you do.”

The man smiled; the skin around his dark eyes crinkled. “I am older than I look, child. I don’t believe I caught your name?”

“Oh, Harry.”

“Tom.” He felt his eyes widen in alarm, but when the man took his hand to shake it he relaxed. He was solid. Warm. Ghosts weren’t either, were they? “Forgive me, I know we’ve only just met and you’ve likely a tour group that you should be getting back to, but it’s rare that I find myself with company and it’s come to be the time I take my tea. Care to join me?”

Harry threw a nervous glance over his shoulder at the house but nodded, not wanting to be impolite. “Sure.”

“Follow me; we shouldn’t linger too long in this heat or you might drop dead. Everything should be set up under the lattices.”

A smaller table came into view under the shade of a wooden lattice, ceilinged by deep purple wisteria, already set for two with a pot of tea and a plat of cake and biscuits. Tom pulled out his chair for him and waited until Harry had sat down before doing the same and pouring them both some tea.

“Tell me, Harry, what do you know of Tom Riddle?”

“Not much; I left pretty earlier into the tour.” Harry admitted, lifting his cup after pouring in a generous amount of milk. “I know when and how he died but that’s about it.”

Tom lifted the spoon he’d used to stir his own drink and tapped it against the side of the cup to dislodge the stubborn amber droplets before setting it on the saucer.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle was a young man of exceeding intelligence; why, to this day, his scores stand as record at the University which he attended. He had the ambition of going to New Orleans and making of himself something…different. But this land was in his family. In his blood. It was where he had been bred born and raised and when it called he came back. Took over the Riddle Plantation from his father when he passed. Three years later he was dead. Dead with no child. The line ended with him and the land changed hands.”

He sipped his drink in a manner which Harry could only describe as dainty before setting the cup down again.

“Where are you from, Harry?”

“Oh, uh, London.”

Sculpted eyebrows rose. “England? Quite far away. What have you come here for?”

“School trip.”

“I see.” The congenial smile had returned. “So you’re not here to meet Tom Riddle’s ghost?” Harry shook his head. “Would you be afraid if you did?”

“Maybe. But I doubt that ghosts are like what the movies show. If they even exist at all. I can’t properly judge how I might act in a situation that I’ve never experienced.”

“You’re wise for your age, Harry. Wise indeed.”

“And this cake is amazing.”

“Thank you, I make it myself though the kitchen has been mostly out of commission in recent days. I think I may have frightened a couple of the workers near to death last night, poor things. Unintentional, of course. They’re just not used to seeing pots and pans move around on their own, not like the staff here.”

“Very funny, Tom. Ghosts aren’t solid and I shook your hand earlier.”

The brunet gave an indulgent nod. “Alright, you’ve caught me.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he filled with the little cakes and tied it up. “Here.”

“Hmm?”

“To take with you. You’ll be missed for certain if you stay much longer, Harry. I’ll take you back to your tour group now.” He straightened the lapels of his clothing as he rose. “Thank you for keeping my company for a time. It’s always a relief, having someone to talk to.”

“Of course. Thank you for the tea and cake…and for not carting me off when you found me somewhere I shouldn’t be.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Tom led him around through another well concealed door and up a flight of servant’s stairs. He could hear the voice of the guide on the other side.

“This is where I leave you; Harry.” He’d been so close when he spoke that the raven felt his breath on the back of his neck.

“Tom, wait. Thank y-.” No one was there. The stairwell was empty and silent. He was alone, left holding a handkerchief full of small cakes.

Shaking himself out of his daze, he stepped through the door and melded back into the small crowd. Finding his way back to Ron and Hermione easily enough.

“Where have you been, mate?”

“What happened to you, Harry? You’re whiter than a sheet! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The tour guide was talking about the last of the Riddle’s record holding grades while standing in front of a wall height portrait of Tom. “I’m perfectly fine, Hermione. But I think I just had afternoon tea with a man who’s been dead for one hundred and fifty years.”


End file.
